And, through it all, he had endured.
Exultation ran like fever through his veins. He had endured, he had survived. He lived... just barely. But he lived. The Queen’s fury thrummed behind him. He could feel the ground and sky pulsate with it. He had defeated her best, and there were none left now to challenge him. None, except herself. The Portal shimmered with myriad colors in his hourglass vision. Closer, closer he came. Behind him—the Queen, rage making her careless, heedless. He would escape the Abyss, she could not stop him now. A shadow crossed over him, chilling him. Looking up, he saw the fingers of a gigantic hand darkening the sky, the nails glistening blood red.
Raistlin smiled, and kept advancing. It was a shadow, nothing more. The hand that cast the shadow reached for him in vain. He was too close, and she, having counted upon her minions to stop him, was too far away. Her hand would grasp the skirts of his tattered black robes when he crossed over the threshold of the Portal, and, with his last strength, he would drag it through the door.
And then, upon his plane, who would prove the stronger?
Raistlin coughed, but even as he coughed, even as the pain tore at him, he smiled—no, grinned—a thin-lipped, bloodstained grin. He had no doubts. No doubts at all.
Clutching his chest with one hand, the Staff of Magius with the other, Raistlin moved ahead, carefully measuring out his life to himself as he needed it, cherishing every burning breath he drew like a miser gloating over a copper piece. The coming battle would be glorious. Now it would be his turn to summon legions to fight for him. The gods themselves would answer his call, for the Queen appearing in the world in all her might and majesty would bring down the wrath of the heavens. Moons would fall, planets shift in their orbits, stars change their courses. The elements would do his bidding—wind, air, water, fire—all under his command.
And now, ahead of him—the Portal, the dragon’s heads shrieking in impotent fury, knowing they lacked the power to stop him.
Just one more breath, one more lurching heartbeat, one more step...
He lifted his hooded head, and stopped.
A figure, unseen before, obscured by a haze of pain and blood and the shadows of death, rose up before him, standing before the Portal, a gleaming sword in its hand. Raistlin, looking at it, stared for a moment in complete and total incomprehension. Then, joy surged through his shattered body.
“Caramon!”
He stretched out a trembling hand. What miracle this was, he didn’t know. But his twin was here, as he had ever been here, waiting for him, waiting to fight at his side...
“Caramon!” Raistlin panted. “Help me, my brother.”
Exhaustion was overtaking him, pain claiming him. He was rapidly losing the power to think, to concentrate. His magic no longer sparkled through his body like quicksilver, but moved sluggishly, congealing like the blood upon his wounds.
“Caramon, come to me. I cannot walk alone—”
But Caramon did not move. He just stood there, his sword in his hand, staring at him with eyes of mingled love and sorrow, a deep, burning sorrow. A sorrow that cut through the haze of pain and exposed Raistlin’s s barren, empty soul. And then he knew. He knew why his twin was here.
“You block my way, brother,” Raistlin said coldly.
“I know.”
“Stand aside, then, if you will not help me!” Raistlin’s voice, coming from his raw throat, cracked with fury.
“No.”
“You fool! You will die!” This was a whisper, soft and lethal.
Caramon drew a deep breath. “Yes,” he said steadily, “and this time, so will you.”
The sky above them darkened. Shadows gathered around them, as if the light were slowly being sucked away. The air grew chill as the light dimmed, but Raistlin could feel a vast, flaming heat behind him, the rage of his Queen.
Fear twisted his bowels, anger wrenched his stomach. The words of magic surged up, tasting like blood upon his lips. He started to hurl them at his twin, but he choked, coughed, and sank to his knees. Still the words were there, the magic was his to command. He would see his twin burn in flames as he had once, long ago, seen his twins illusion burn in the Tower of High Sorcery. If only, if only he could catch his breath...
The spasm passed. The words of magic seethed in his brain. He looked up, a grotesque snarl twisting his face, his hand raised...
Caramon stood before him, his sword in his hand, staring at him with pity in his eyes.
Pity! The look slammed into Raistlin with the force of a hundred swords. Yes, his twin would die, but not with that look upon his face!
Leaning upon his staff, Raistlin pulled himself to his feet. Raising his hand, he cast the black hood from his head so that his brother could see himself—doomed—reflected in his golden eyes.
“So you pity me, Caramon,” he hissed. “You bumbling harebrained slob. You who are incapable of comprehending the power that I have achieved, the pain I have overcome, the victories that have been mine. You dare to pity me? Before I kill you—and I will kill you, my brother—I want you to die with the knowledge in your heart that I am going forth into the world to become a god!”
“I know, Raistlin,” Caramon answered steadily. The pity did not fade from his eyes, it only deepened. “And that is why I pity you. For I have seen the future. I know the outcome.”
Raistlin stared at his brother, suspecting some trick. Above him, the red-tinged sky grew darker still, but the hand that was outstretched had paused. He could feel the Queen hesitating. She had discovered Caramon’s presence. Raistlin sensed her confusion, her fear. The lingering doubt that Caramon might be some apparition conjured up to stop him vanished. Raistlin drew a step nearer his brother.
“You have seen the future? How?”
“When you went through the Portal, the magical field affected the device, throwing Tas and me into the future.”
Raistlin devoured his brother eagerly with his eyes. “And? What will happen?”
“You will win,” Caramon said simply. “You will be victorious, not only over the Queen of Darkness, but over all the gods. Your constellation alone will shine in the skies... for a time—”
“For a time?” Raistlin’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me! What happens? Who threatens? Who deposes me?”
“You do,” Caramon replied, his voice filled with sadness. “You rule over a dead world, Raistlin—a world of gray ash and smoldering ruin and bloated corpses. You are alone in those heavens, Raistlin. You try to create, but there is nothing left within you to draw upon, and so you suck life from the stars themselves until they finally burst and die. And then there is nothing around you, nothing inside you...
“No!” Raistlin snarled. “You lie! Damn you! You lie!” Hurling the Staff of Magius from him, Raistlin lurched forward, his clawing hands catching hold of his brother. Startled, Caramon raised his sword, but it fell to the shifting ground at a word from Raistlin. The big man’s grip tightened on his twin’s arms convulsively. He could break me in two, Raistlin thought, sneering. But he won’t. He is weak. He hesitates. He is lost. And I will know the truth!
Reaching up, Raistlin pressed his burning blood-stained hand upon his brother’s forehead, dragging Caramon’s visions from his mind into his own.
And Raistlin saw.
He saw the bones of the world, the stumps of trees, the gray mud and ash, the blasted rock, the rising smoke, the rotting bodies of the dead...
He saw himself, suspended in the cold void, emptiness around him, emptiness within. It pressed down upon him, squeezed him. It gnawed at him, ate at him. He twisted in upon himself, desperately seeking nourishment—a drop of blood, a scrap of pain. But there was nothing there. There would never be anything there. And he would continue to twist, snaking inward, to find nothing... nothing... nothing.